


At Summer's End

by doublejoint



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gossip Girl Fusion, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26451013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: (It’ll be over sooner than yesterday anyway, and they haven’t even technically hit fall yet but Ryouta’s already thinking about spring, the thunderstorms and the rain washing away dirty snow, the leaves turning from nothing to green instead of green to parched yellow and brown.)
Relationships: Haizaki Shougo/Kise Ryouta
Kudos: 6





	At Summer's End

**Author's Note:**

> underage smoking/drinking

Ryouta wakes up cold, grasping for the duvet. There’s no telltale hum of the air conditioner in the background, and thinking back to last night, Shougo had slammed the window open, as high as it would go, before cracking the screen so he could smoke one of those cigarettes he steals from his mom and let the smoke trail out into the sky (and yet, it still smells vaguely of tobacco and cherry flavor in the room, or maybe that’s just Ryouta’s proximity to Shougo). Still, Ryouta’s fucking cold; he’d fallen asleep with the flat sheet only half over him last night, but it’s inadequate right now. Shougo’s cocooned inside of it, and Ryouta pulls, managing to get out the edge--it’s barely long enough. But there’s enough for him to roll over, press himself against Shougo’s back (though it’s less fun when Shougo’s not awake to protest) and tuck himself in. Shougo himself isn’t as warm as Ryouta was hoping, but he’s better than the air.

The thought that he should get up and close the window floats through his mind when he’s feeling too cozy, too close to returning to sleep.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, Shougo’s stolen all the covers away again, but Ryouta’s okay without them. The sun is shining across the bed, right onto his torso, warming him like a splayed-out cat. He stretches out his arms, managing to avoid punching the wall behind him. It’s warm, yes, and it’s quarter to ten, way too early to be up, but with the light only at this angle it feels like it should be an hour earlier. They should have so much more of the day left to lie around and order shitty takeout and finish off the bottle of Tanqueray they’d started last night, but the time feels more urgent.

It is more urgent. They have homework, college essays (the importance of which has been ground into them, despite their money and--where applicable--their legacy statuses and the prestige of their high schools and the glowing letters of recommendation they’re sure to get from teachers and guidance counselors), extracurriculars to beg off. 

It’s warm, though; despite the length of the days and the half-week of school it feels like summer. Last week could have been a very bad, tedious dream, made from the memories of pulling on school uniforms and tying ties and clutching onto a venti mocha in order to make it through a morning full of classes trying to drill information into a brain that’s not willing to do much more than think about which bars don’t card and which don’t care about fake IDs and which side streets to avoid at three in the morning because the supers put the garbage out too early. It could have been, but when Ryouta rolls over, the sight of his schoolbag leaned against Shougo’s closet door makes him groan out loud.

This rouses Shougo; he rolls over and smushes his face into Ryouta’s thigh, the thin layer of Ryouta’s Alexander Wang sweatpants doing nothing to prevent the sharp pain of being poked by Shougo’s nose. Routa pushes his head away, and Shougo nips at his hand. What is he, an animal? 

“Make me a coffee,” Shougo says, and rolls back over.

Ryouta rolls his eyes. “It’s your house, Shougo-kun. Shouldn’t you be making it?”

“You know how the machine works. Don’t play dumb, Ryouta.”

“I don’t want to.”

Shougo sighs, as if he’s a long-suffering hard laborer, and Ryouta wonders what the chances are of him actually making coffee (quicker, better quality) versus ordering up from the diner a few blocks away (more likely) or dragging Ryouta out for Starbucks (less likely, but slightly preferable to the diner, even if it means getting dressed and making themselves look slightly presentable).

“Ryouta…” Shougo whines, trying to pull him back under the covers. “Tomorrow’s Monday.”

“Yeah, and it’ll be over sooner if you don’t get up.”

(It’ll be over sooner than yesterday anyway, and they haven’t even technically hit fall yet but Ryouta’s already thinking about spring, the thunderstorms and the rain washing away dirty snow, the leaves turning from nothing to green instead of green to parched yellow and brown.)

Shougo sulks under the covers for a few more seconds, and then, finally, pushes them off, slapping the night table until he finds his pack of cigarettes, pulling out a fresh one and shoving it into his mouth. He sits on the edge of the bed, cigarette unlit, as if he’s trying to act like a world-weary middle-aged man, imitating some TV actor, probably. Ryouta rises to his feet and his sweatpants slip down on his hips. He doesn’t mind giving Shougo a nice view, but when he turns around to check out Shougo checking him out, Shougo’s not even looking. He’s pushing himself to his feet and heading over to the window and his filthy ashtray (Ryouta’s positive he’d bought it secondhand somewhere; it’s too old to be recent but not old enough to be really vintage, and nothing like the styles that Shougo’s mother favors).

“Is your mom coming back today?”

“Nah,” Shougo says through a half-yawn, as Ryouta opens up the closet door. 

Most of Shougo’s clothes aren’t what he’d pick to wear, but they fit him, and he’s not going out today in the wrinkled clothes he’d worn last night. There are a couple of pairs of Brooks Brothers khakis in the back of the closet, right where Ryouta always looks, and they’ll do. They’re not even too wrinkled.

“We’ll go to Starbucks” says Ryouta. His Versace blazer from yesterday isn’t too wrinkled; it’s enough of a different look if he wears it over the khakis and some sort of shirt, if Shougo has any that are clean and not too gaudy. 

“Who said you’re deciding?” says Shougo. 

His elbow is leaning on the windowsill, and he exhales cigarette smoke into the room. 

“Me,” says Ryouta.

“Fine, but you’re paying. And wait until I finish my smoke.”

Ryouta rolls his eyes. As if he’d go outside without moisturizing first. 


End file.
